


A Ripple in Time

by Artrix



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Groundhog Day, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-06 19:21:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11607315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artrix/pseuds/Artrix
Summary: They weren’t supposed to die the first time they fought Dracula, but then, they weren’t supposed to come back, either.On the outskirts of Gresit, by way of luck or fate, Trevor came into possession of an enchanted pocket watch. With each new death, he is restored to this specific point in time, and with each new life he returns with the knowledge and experience he died with. Only, defeating Dracula hasn’t gotten any easier, and he’s grown too close to companions that barely know him.He’s going to make things right, no matter how many lives it takes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was requested to be a long one shot, but the more I was writing it, the more I realized I didn’t want to make it a one shot! So the request is, “What if before he gets to Gresit, Trevor finds a weird watch. During the battle with Dracula, they die, but Trevor hits a button on the watch and is taken back to the start of the show. He keeps all the memories, so he keeps rewinding until he gets it right, becoming an even better man. Maybe Alucard and Sypha find out at one point.”
> 
> I did stray a bit from this request, but only because I wanted to flesh out a larger story! I am also aware that pocket watches weren’t really well known until the 1500s, but I am asking for a suspension of disbelief for the sake of this story and will be tying in the stop watch subweapon that was usable in the game!

Sypha’s harrowed scream pierced Trevor’s ears only a second before cold metal pierced his skin. He stumbled backwards until he hit the wall, clutching at the dagger protruding from his gut. He’d thought he could get in a hit from behind while Dracula was distracted with her wall of fire, but it seemed that Dracula’s telekinesis far exceeded even Alucard’s capabilities.

Trevor had been impressed that Alucard could summon a sword to his side, but Dracula was able to stop the dagger he hadn’t even seen coming before it got close to him—and more than that, propel it back at Trevor.

Blood bubbled between his fingers and dripped to the floor; this was only the newest injury of many. The fight had been going on for five minutes? Ten? It felt like an eternity. Every muscle ached, wracked with pain and exhaustion. He had cuts and bruises from the trip up here, but Dracula was an entirely different enemy and didn’t have to rely on his weak points to cause massive damage. 

He saw Alucard lunge towards his father from the corner of his eye; he probably could have made it to Sypha, but he wasn’t even trying. His attention was focused solely on his father, eyes burning with determination as he drew his sword back to slash at his father. Trevor heard the sound of metal but he couldn’t see if Alucard had done any damage; they moved so quickly that he couldn’t keep up.

Sypha dropped to her knees; Trevor could see the electricity still jumping off of her. Her outfit was torn and scorched; she’d lost so much blood already that he wasn’t sure if she’d ever get up again.

If Sypha could have been saved, Alucard would have tried. But he hadn’t even tried, this time. Sypha wasn’t moving at all; she didn’t try to push herself up. Trevor couldn’t see very well but squinted.

She wasn’t breathing.

Alucard must have known; when Trevor _could_ see him, he could tell that his movements were erratic. Alucard might have tried to hide his emotions, but they came out in battle. His face was strained and there was fear in his expression. His movements were calculated, but not so much as they had been before. He was getting reckless.

They were getting desperate, the three of them. Earlier, he had been so certain that they could handle this. They had made their way through the castle, fought through waves of hellish beasts, and _survived_. Easily, even. The worst injury was a sprained ankle, but Sypha had managed and assured them that her magic wasn’t affected by such a thing. Alucard and Trevor had a few scrapes and bruises between them, but Alucard healed quickly and Trevor wasn’t going to let something so small as that slow him down.

But that was before, and this was now, and Dracula was kicking their asses.

It didn’t matter how easily they’d managed to make it through traps and monsters and followers of his. It all boiled down to _this fight_ and if they couldn’t stop Dracula, it was all a waste. He’d replace what was lost and without anyone to oppose him, Walachia stood no chance.

The world stood no chance.

Alucard screamed in the distance, but Trevor’s vision was still blurred. He could pinpoint where he was from the splash of color and the way his scream echoed off bare walls of Dracula’s lair. At some point in time, this place must have been beautiful, but when they’d entered it had been torn to shreds. It was dark and ominous, lit only by dying candles and the lightning that flashed erratically through the windows. It bore the mark of old damage and fresh damage alike. Portraits were torn, windows were broken, and rugs were shredded. Furniture and chandeliers had been splintered into pieces and lay strewn about.

And yet, amidst all that damage, the first thing Trevor had noticed was the path worn into the floor. He wondered how long Dracula must have spent shuffling across the floor, pacing, waiting for them.

Of course, he’d been sitting in a magnificent throne across from the door when they first got there, like he was too superior to greet them as worthy adversaries.

Maybe he was.

Trevor still clutched the hilt of the knife stuck in his gut. He didn’t risk pulling it out and bleeding to death, not when they might have still had a chance. He couldn’t die until after Dracula did. 

His whip had been yanked from his hand what felt like a lifetime ago; he stumbled towards it, in pain but determined. He had to focus to find and approach it, but it was finally within his reach. Even just crouching to retrieve it sent his body into spasms of pain, but he tried his hardest to ignore it as he retrieved it. He had avoided Dracula’s fire, but his electricity was still thick in the air and twice he’d been too slow to avoid it. 

His whip recovered, Trevor noted that it felt strangely heavy in his hand. It felt _right_ to be there, but it was difficult to lift his arm. He was growing weaker.

He’d lost too much blood.

Alucard screamed again and Trevor managed to focus his gaze enough to see Dracula bring his clawed hand down, hard, through Alucard.

_Through_ Alucard.

Blood shot from the dhampir’s chest grotesquely, splattering the ground and Dracula, but that wasn’t what horrified Trevor.

It was the fact that Dracula was clutching his son’s heart.

For a moment, the vampire stood statuesque, staring at the organ in his hand, and then he squeezed it tightly as if he was wringing out a sponge. The muscle was pulverized beneath his grip and the blood drew to the floor. Dracula stared at it, unfazed, and then hurled it to the ground.

There was a madness in the man’s face; whatever compassion he might have once had was stripped away with grief and rage and hatred. Trevor had known Dracula was a monster, but he felt like he was staring into the eyes of the devil and for a moment, his heart seized. Dracula showed his own son no mercy. Not that Trevor expected it after he’d seen the scar he’d imparted on his son when he first opposed him, but there was no pity, no compassion.

Alucard’s death was on his father’s hands. The blonde lost all function in his legs and collapsed to the ground gasping. Maybe Alucard could have recovered from another wound, but could he regrow an organ? Sypha was only feet from him, could she have helped?

It was then, as Trevor was considering such a terrible thing, that Dracula screamed. The wail split two giant glass panels in the room and deafened Trevor instantly. Dracula clutched his blood soaked hands to his face as he stared, mortified, at his fallen son. There was no guilt, only despair.

And more madness, and more hatred.

Trevor stumbled and willed himself to ignore the pain not only just in his body, but in his heart. 

He tried to force himself to ignore the fact that the corpses of his friends were discarded on the ground, and that he was likely to join them soon.

It was worth it if Dracula was defeated; that was all that mattered. They knew what risks they were taking when they came here. They had talked about death.

They weren’t afraid.

_He wasn’t afraid._

He charged towards Dracula and with one great battle cry. He had mustered all his strength—all of _his_ grief, _his_ rage, _his_ hatred—and brought his whip down on Dracula.

It bit into the vampire’s flesh, blistering and boiling instantly, but Dracula was no common vampire and his skin was repairing itself almost as soon as the damage was done. His eyes found Trevor and he knew, in that instant, just how fucked he was.

Dracula was too fast.

Even at his prime, Trevor could not have defended himself. He didn’t even realize Dracula had moved until he heard the snapping in his neck. It registered, as if in slow motion, that Dracula’s cold hands had wrapped around his neck and gripped so tightly he’d crushed Trevor’s windpipe. He threw Trevor like a child’s toy into the wall behind him. 

There was another sickening crack as the hunter hit the wall, but he was granted a relief from the pain as he slid down to the floor. He couldn’t feel anything. Blackness tickled at the corners of his eyes and his head lulled to one side. The impact had been enough to tear the pouch at his side from him and it had fallen next to him haphazardly.

His vision was swimming and he no matter how hard he tried to breathe, no air reached his lungs.

He briefly registered that he’d lost his whip again.

Suddenly, the room lit up, and despite the light, Trevor couldn’t see anything except a pillar of fire in the room where Dracula had been. It was spreading quickly, a wall of flames. It swallowed Sypha. Alucard.

He could feel the heat as it flushed towards him.

And yet, he couldn’t focus on that.

His eyes landed on the metallic reflection of the flames on a small, shiny little trinket that seemed to have fallen from one of his pouches. On the ground next to him, resting against his hand as if it had deliberately fallen to be there, was a pocket watch.

Trevor was delusional; he could feel the fragmented thoughts falling apart in his mind. He wasn’t thinking about his fallen comrades, or Dracula.

He was trying to remember why, of all things, he’d decided to keep that pocket watch with him, and how he’d even forgotten it in the first place.

-

_The smell of wetness clung to the air and Trevor groaned as he pushed himself up from the tree he’d taken refuge under. The smell of death and sewage greeted him and he knew immediately how today was going to go. Gresit was a cesspool right now, but it was the only shot he had at keeping himself alive. The town was tearing itself apart and yet he couldn’t bring himself to care. He wanted a meal and was just desperate enough to suffer the thought of demons and people if it meant he got something in his stomach._

_He hadn’t bothered to wake up before he started his walk; he generally kept his body in a state of abuse and today was no different. He was sore, hung over, and damp. His bones creaked when he walked and he felt a dull ache in every step. For half the walk, he hadn’t even bothered to open his eyes. Trevor was nearly at the walls of Gresit when he was compelled to yawn and scrub at his sleep-filled eyes. He hadn’t seen the harm then, but then, he hadn’t seen much of anything._

_A crunching noise reached his ear and he froze mid-step. Drawing his foot away, Trevor eyed the muddy footprint—and the small, silver pocket watch. It was open; on the inside of the lid, he could see scratch marks and some strange language that Trevor didn’t recognize. A glass panel covered the clock hands, but it was immediately clear that it had been crushed behind repair._

_By his own foot, of course._

_“Oh,” he’d said dumbly, to no one in particularly. For a moment, he stared at the pocket watch and then crouched to pick it up. It was filthy, but everything was these days. He wiped the mud off the back of it and flung it onto the ground before cleaning the rest off on his cape._

_There was something strange about it, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. It sounded like there were gears trying to tick in the pocket watch, and it had a button atop of it that he was compelled to push, several times, though it yielded no effect. He flipped it over in his hands, admiring the detailed carving on both sides._

_He had seen large clocks, but never anything this small. It seemed like someone had almost intended for it to work, but if it had ever been useful before he’d stepped on it, he wouldn’t have known._

_It was a pity; the piece seemed like it was a piece of art at the very least. But, perhaps it wasn’t so important if someone could have just left it here in the mud, so close to Gresit’s gaping sewage pit._

_Trevor sneered disdainfully as the smell assaulted his nose. He could smell death in the air, so maybe the parting hadn’t been intentional._

_At the very least, if it was real silver, it might mean that he had more than one meal to look forward to._

_He slid it into a pouch at his side and then drew up his cloak as he eyed the pool of sludge he’d have to cross to get into the city._

_Gresit was a filthy town, but he was a starving man and that meant he needed to deal with all its shit and get inside._

-

God, Trevor would have given anything to be back in Gresit’s blood soaked streets. It felt like a lifetime ago but it couldn’t have been more that a few short weeks, if even that. The smell of singed flesh assaulted him and the echoes of screams played in his head. He didn’t have the strength to do anything but lay there and wait to die.

It was pathetic.

He was pathetic.

He should have done so many things differently.

And now, all of Walachia would suffer.

The flames reached his feet and he _felt_ again.

Pain washed through his body. Trevor screamed and flailed wildly as the fire tore up his legs, his torso. He could feel hair and skin melting away and he clawed at the ground as if it would grant him some mercy. 

It didn’t, but the pocket watch fit nicely in his hand, though it brought him no comfort.

His vision was gone first; he squeezed his eyes shut and didn’t think he could open them again. His hearing was gone; he felt loud popping in his ears, and then silence. His nose felt like it was on fire and suddenly he couldn’t smell anything.

But the best part of all of it was when he couldn’t _feel_ anything.

Trevor sank into death with a soundless scream.

He had no concept of time, or even of himself, and yet there was a flicker voice that just wouldn’t disappear. He didn’t have a body, didn’t have an existence, and yet he didn’t feel _gone_. 

His memories were in tact, but it felt like something was heavy on his mind. In a way, it was a relief. It felt like he’d had just the right amount to drink to wash his worries away, and yet not too much that he was going to have to deal with a hangover. He was tired enough that he could ignore the emotions that seemed to just wash off of him.

Everything was black and empty. He felt like everything and nothing, floating and sinking. Healing and rotting.

It was a paradox, but he was too complacent to wrap his mind around what was going on. Except, he knew that he must have died. Something about fire, something about Dracula. Something. Did it matter? He was dead, now. Wasn’t his problem.

He was dead, off to meet his maker. Excommunicated or not, the Belmonts used to be renown for their holy powers. Certainly fighting off Hell’s creatures had to have some reward in the afterlife? He couldn’t be condemned for that. He’d earned his rest, though, hadn’t he?

The scent of sewage reached his nose and the only thing he could think was that he must have made it to heaven, because only priests could be full of that much shit.

A scream, in the distance.

Well. Okay, that wasn’t very heavenly. But there were probably plenty of reasons to scream in Heaven. Maybe she saw a ghost.

Trevor’s stomach growled.

That wasn’t right. You didn’t starve in Heaven.

Trevor’s eyes snapped open with a fierceness that he hadn’t realized was possible—considering, of course—that he was _dead_. Or, he was _supposed_ to be.

There were no clouds, no pearly gates. No angels checking lists, no ancestors waiting to welcome him.

There was Gresit, and its walls, and the corpses of innocents behind him, and that _pool of shit_ right in front of him.

This wasn’t Heaven.

This was Hell.


	2. Chapter 2

Thoughts came crushing down on Trevor with intensity he didn’t have the mental willpower to withstand. Only seconds before—or a lifetime?—he had been exhausted. He had been bleeding, burning, and yet…

A cold sweat washed over him and even his heavy cloak couldn’t keep out the unnatural chill that suffocated him. His stomach was twisting in uncomfortable knots and the hair on the back of his neck was standing up straight.

His head was throbbing worse than any hangover but the thoughts felt so _lucid_. Walking into Gresit. The rumors. The Speakers. The Cyclops. Sypha. The Bishop, the mob, the demons, Alucard, the castle…

Dracula.

A shudder wracked his body and he felt the strongest, strangest _fear_ at the name—something he wasn’t certain he could justify. Trevor couldn’t remember being so terrified, not in his life. Not when he was a child, frightened by nightmares and monsters he didn’t understand. Not when he was an adolescent, learning about the beasts he was to hunt. Not when he was adult, _facing_ said beasts.

Trevor had always been able to keep a somewhat level head about him, though he might have acted on instinct and seemingly without much forethought. True, he was a prideful man who had triggers by which to provoke, but maybe that’s why he was so bothered by this overwhelming fear.

He was Trevor Belmont, last son of the Belmont clan, and he had never seen true defeat.

Except, Dracula’s face flashed before him, horrible and menacing, with such clarity that he wasn’t even sure if that phrase held true anymore.

He wondered just much he’d had to drink to see the face of a man no one lived to remember. 

He managed to raise a trembling hand to his forehead and he forced a laugh just to hear _something_.

“Bloody Hell,” he muttered, combing his fingers through his hair. His voice sounded the same, sans the off tremble. His heart was pounding uncomfortably and he said to himself, “Must have had something good to drink last night.”

There was no answer, though the words hung like a question on the air. He hadn’t expected a response, but one would have been nice. 

He drew his foot back to steady himself and froze when he heard a strange cracking sound. Immediately his attention was on the footprint he’d left in the mud—and, more importantly, the silver pocket watch.

His mind flashed to what _felt_ like a memory but what couldn’t have been, because the moment he was remembering, he was _in_.

Cautiously, he ignored the nausea that built like sludge in his mind and knelt to scoop the item up. Even a quick inspection revealed that it was everything he _thought_ it was. 

It was an oddity and Trevor was on edge; none of this made sense no matter how hard he wracked his mind for answers. 

As a Belmont, he should have expected strange things of all nature, and yet this was something he just couldn’t seem to comprehend. He wasn’t ignorant to magic, or curses, but he wasn’t sure _what_ this was. 

But, he couldn’t just leave it here. If it was enchanted, for better or worse, he couldn’t risk it falling into the wrong hands. And if it wasn’t…

He might be able to pawn it for something.

His stomach growled again, this time with enough force that he felt it rattle through his bones.

He couldn’t think on an empty stomach.

A pain split from around his naval and he glanced down as he reached a hand to cup the area. For a split second, he imagined a knife gouged into him, blood surging from the open wound.

The image was gone when he blinked, and the dull pain he thought he’d felt suddenly just seemed more like the hunger pains he’d been dealing with on and off for the past few days.

He looked to the sewage line, the only easy path _into_ or _out of_ the city. 

Gresit might not have the answers he sought, but they might have a meal. It was better than waiting out here, at least.

He closed the metal trinket and tucked it safely into a pouch at his side before standing and drawing his cloak up. Disdainfully, he eyed his pathway into the city, and the pools of sewage he had to cross to get there.

-

Trevor had been to Gresit before, years ago, so he ignored the feeling of familiarity even when it reached a point that made it hard to pretend like he hadn’t done this before. When he snuck in, he anticipated needing to disarm the guard only to find him sleeping.

Familiar.

He made his way into Gresit and eyed the shanties, the piles of dead bodies, the organs strewn about.

Familiar.

The only stand open to buy meat—familiar.

Trevor was unnerved beyond reason and no matter what he did, he felt like he was just following in someone else’s footsteps. Only, they were so _familiar_.

He was a puppet, on someone else’s strings, and he had questions but no answers.

But the Speakers might. 

For the entire time he’d known them, they’d kept things from him.

Or, at least, they had in the dream that he’d had—if it could have even be called that. But the more Trevor tried to justify what he’d seen as a dream, the harder the memories fought against him, as if they were _demanding_ he acknowledge them. 

He was still trying to trick himself into thinking it was a drunken illusion, but it was an ill fitting lie and Trevor wasn’t stupid enough to accept that as truth. As he walked, he tried to recall legends that correlated to these strange sensations, but not came to mind.

No monster he knew of had any ability remotely similar, and even the ones capable of trapping a man’s mind usually had some tells. 

So he followed the path laid out for him in his memory.

He had wandered about town halfheartedly; for all that he _could_ recall, he couldn’t remember which alleyway he had first encountered the elder and the two priests that assaulted him.

The sun began to rise higher in the sky and Trevor found a strange anxiousness welling inside of him. If he was too late…

Then what? He couldn’t just go to the other speakers; none of them had been quick to warm up to him. He couldn’t just go get Sypha; she’d be distraught if her grandfather perished. 

It was a labyrinth back here and every path looked the same to him. The buildings were unremarkable and trash and blood lined the grounds all the same. Trevor was only seconds from trying to scale the nearest wall to see if he could get a better vantage point when he heard faint voices. He moved swiftly, hand already on his whip.

Two priests, and Sypha’s grandfather were walking; they hadn’t picked where they were going to kill him yet.

Trevor breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t too late.

There was still time to figure this all out.

The priests seemed to have the same intention, though really he couldn’t imagine why anything would have changed for them; from behind, he could see one of the priests just _itching_ to unleash the knife hidden beneath his robes. Trevor could make out its barely concealed form and wondered everyone in this town could have been so ignorant.

“Hey,” he called, voice low, “Step off.”

The priests paused, both turning to face him.

They were on edge, clearly; Trevor had to wonder if either of them had conscience enough to feel guilty for the deed they intended to carry out. The bald one’s eyes narrowed and the bearded one clutched his stave tighter. For as eager as they were to end the priest, Trevor was eager to end them.

At least, for all the trouble they’d given him.

The headache returned suddenly and he grunted, trying to cover the sudden pain with a gruff scowl. He was struggling to identify what was _true_ and what was in his mind. What was reality and what was illusion—if illusion was even the right word. An illusion was a falsehood, but this?

In front of him was the Speaker and the two priests, just as he remembered them. Dreamed them? Foresaw?

Fuck, if ever he needed a drink, _now_ was the time.

Answers would come, he’d see to that. But first, he needed the Speakers. 

“What’s the church want with an old man in a place like this?”

“None of your business,” the bearded one grumbled. He’d been the more chatty of the two before, but this conversation wasn’t for the benefit of the priests _or_ Trevor; it was to prove that he’d _attempted_ to dissuade them with words before he kicked their asses. Just so the Speaker couldn’t chase him off for using too much force.

If only he knew.

“Bit of my business,” Trevor answered. “You’re in my way.”

“So go around,” the priest growled, every bit as impatient as Trevor expected.

“Look,” Trevor said slowly, hand sliding to his whip. He made sure they could see it, made sure they knew _exactly_ what they were asking for. “Run back to your church before someone gets hurt.”

The priests exchanged glances and then looked back at him. They didn’t move or speak, and Trevor added, “Last warning.”

The city, albeit dead and suffering, still had life in it. There were faint voices in the distance, moving closer. The priests looked unnerved, but Trevor expected it. They had taken this man back here to kill him quietly, without an audience, so they could live in their sacrilege in privacy. 

It would have soured the people’s opinions of the church if they’d killed him in plain sight without riling up their mob first, but these two were losing their window of privacy quickly.

“Kill him,” the bearded man commanded, and the bald one nodded.

The knife suddenly appeared in his hand and he did a fancy trick, like Trevor was supposed to be intimidated with street theatrics. He was less interested in the knife-wielding priest if only because the bearded one had raised his staff; his eyes were on the Speaker again and he seemed ready to spill blood. 

Men of God, huh?

Trevor spat disdainfully.

Before the old man could be bludgeoned to death, Trevor’s whip shot through the air and curled around the stave. The leather coiled tightly around the shaft and he yanked his whip sharply.

The stave lurched towards the bald priest and collided with back of the head, hard. He let out a groan and slammed into the wall next to them even as the metal rod flew through the air, still heading towards Trevor. He caught it in his outstretched hand and quickly uncoiled his whip from it, but by now the bald priest was coming at him again.

Apparently, he wasn’t a fast learner.

Trevor swung the stave at him, perhaps deliberately aiming for his face if only because he remembered this man needed a _hard_ lesson. The pointed edge met little resistance when it met his skin and judging by the wail of pain and anger, Trevor had hit something that was going to heal easily.

Like, say, an eye.

The priest’s hands went to his face and he screamed, but the bearded priest seemed like he was reaching for another weapon. Trevor didn’t give him the opportunity; he yanked the stave from the flesh it was embedded in and hurled it through the air. The makeshift weapon made a whistling noise before he heard the sickening crunch of bones breaking. 

The bearded priest howled; he’d tried to catch the stave before it hit him but it had been spinning too quickly and with too much force for him to have stood a chance. His outstretched hand hadn’t been enough to stop it and the impact broke two fingers immediately.

Better than losing one, though.

“Go,” Trevor commanded. “Last chance to leave, before I finish the job.” He slapped his whip loudly on the ground before slowly, dramatically pulling it up as if he intended to strike again.

This time, they ran.

It wasn’t until they had scrambled down the alleyway and out of sight that the Speaker addressed him.

“The violence wasn’t necessary,” he said calmly, but Trevor heard the gratitude. It was confirmed when the man laughed and offered a more straightforward word of thanks.

“I am of the House of Belmont,” he introduced. “You must have a safe house here. Let me escort you back to your caravan.” It was not a request, and the Elder clearly understood he didn’t have a say in it.

Still, he offered a polite smile. “Of course.”

He was grateful for the company, even if they walked in relative silence.

The path was familiar, both a comfort and a source of unease. They reached the safe house soon enough and the Elder introduced the other Speakers to him.

The conversation was too similar to one he had before, though he was still struggling to understand what was going on, and he desperately needed to see just what the Speakers knew, if anything. They were safe, for now, but they just kept _talking_ about trivial things. Trevor nodded occasionally and listened with feigned ignorance; they said nothing he didn’t already seem to know.

He didn’t even bother to ask them to leave this time; he already knew they wouldn’t. The Elder hadn’t mentioned Sypha yet and Trevor couldn’t remember how he’d managed to make him bring it up before.

He had been standing next to the head Speaker when the opportunity arose; one of the others—Arn, the only other one he knew by name—mentioned the demons.

Too eagerly, Trevor asked, “And do any of the Speakers know magic?”

He could see the sore look that crossed their faces; some of them looked away, but the Elder just looked remorseful. Arn was bitter, but Trevor brushed him off easily. Sypha was alive, he just needed to pretend like he didn’t know that so he could have an excuse to go find her already.

“A few, but I fear we have lost our best,” the Elder finally said quietly.

“Oh?” Trevor asked with perfectly feigned curiosity. He was impatient; he wanted answers and it was hard to force himself to play the fool here. “And where have you lost her?”

He did not miss the look of acute examination that drew over the Elder’s face, or the way several of the other Speakers looked at him inquisitively. 

Perhaps he shouldn’t have said _’her’_. Too late, now.

“My granddaughter,” the Elder began. Perhaps too pushy, Trevor nodded in silent encouragement and the man went on, “There is a local legend.”

When the Elder paused to inhale, a clear indicator that he was about to delve into a lengthy story, Trevor interrupted again, “Yeah, I heard that one. I know all about the ‘Sleeping Savior’. She went to seek him out?”

The older man watched Trevor with a curious eye. “Yes. She went to the catacombs—”

“Under the mausoleum, to the west of here?”

Again, the judgmental eyes. “Yes. How did you know?”

“I might have seen her,” Trevor lied. “If there’s a chance she’s still alive, I need to find her.”

A few of the speakers had the heart to look hopeful, but more of them looked saddened. The Elder wore a forlorn expression, and Trevor did not consider how hard it was for the man to respond to hope. “I fear such might not be the case. She would not abandon us. If she has not returned…”

“Then something is keeping her. If she is your best magician, you should have more faith. I will fetch her. Have supper waiting for us.”

Arn looked offended; Trevor could see his hands ball into fists and his brows narrow, but before he could speak, the Elder did. 

“That is a kind offer from you, Belmont. Your conviction is warming. I wish for her to return to us, in whatever condition we can have her in.”

Trevor had already moved towards the door. “Right. Do me one favor, though.” He looked to each of the Speakers, diligently catching and holding the gaze of each of them as he swept through the crowd. “ _Don’t_ go outside until I get back.”

The Speakers did not protest, but Trevor left before any of them could have, anyway. 

He left their lodgings at a brisk pace, unaware of the Elder’s eyes on him from the open window.

-

The benefit of having future sight, or memories—as, both were alternating in his mind as the most likely scenario—was that you _knew_ what floors were going to crumble. It didn’t stop Trevor from using them, it just made sure his landings went a lot easier. Besides, it saved time; if he’d taken the actual built in route, he’d have missed his own deadline. This place was winding and had too many corridors that lead to nowhere; he didn’t have time to explore.

While he wasn’t as well versed in Gresit’s underground layout as well as he would have liked, he tried to mentally chart if it was even possible to reach Alucard’s lair from here. It would save him a hell of a lot of hardship with the demons tonight, but—

Oh, shit.

He had to deal with that again, didn’t he? Hell, this was going to be a long day.

Sypha first. Maybe she could help. If he got her fast enough, maybe they could move the speakers before the priests found him, skip the mob and—

Oh, hello, Cyclops.

Trevor’s timing was off; in what he had currently decided were memories, he recalled that the first time he’d encountered the monster it had been lurking in a deeper chamber and come out to investigate. Now, he hadn’t even reached Sypha and the beast was right in front of him.

Thankfully, it was still unaware of the hunter’s presence. It hadn’t spotted him yet, which meant Trevor had a few seconds extra to prepare. 

He was in the right place at least; in the distance, beneath a stray stream of light, he could make out Sypha’s petrified form.

Time to get this over with.

Whip in hand, Trevor focused on the Cyclops again and aimed for the monster’s elbow.

The leather bit into its arm, though rather than cause it pain, it just seemed to irritate it. At first, it didn’t even seem to realize what was going on. It shook its arm and groaned in annoyance before realizing that it wasn’t just a sting—something was _attached_ to it. Trevor could see the gears ticking in its head as it slowly managed to follow the trail of the whip back to him.

With a horrified growl it flung its arm and tried to shake the hunter off of him.

It didn’t work; Trevor kept his grip tightly and used the beast’s own strength to propel him through the air. Of course, it meant that he wound up first slammed into a pillar, but with the creature’s second yank he was flung upwards—right towards its purple, glowing eye.

Shit.

It was trying to petrify him, and he was stuck midair, heading straight towards the building beam. It was poor planning on his part; he’d gotten so caught up in doing this _quickly_ that he hadn’t come in here with a plan better than ‘Stab it in the eye and kill it’.

He saw a flash of purple light and realized just how screwed he was about to be. When the beam hit him, he was defenseless to dodge it. Immediately, he felt his skin go cold as the rock began to crust over him, _through_ him, but in his last seconds he figured he might be able to correct this.

It wouldn’t matter if he was petrified, as long as he aimed this _just_ right…

He had managed to unsheathe his sword after the collision with the pillar and had it out when the beam hit him. While he could still move his arm, he angled the sword so it was pointed straight into the eye. The beam had seeped through his skin; he was losing the ability to move his muscles. He could feel it in his bones, but even with the extra weight his body was picking up, his momentum alone was enough to propel his sword into the monster’s eye— _through_ its eye. 

It wailed, but it was short lived. Trevor warranted it was dead before it hit the ground—and certainly before he did.

His skin had begun to return to its normal texture even as he landed; Sypha had been petrified more thoroughly than he had, but she was wilting in the distance. He was shaking off the numbness in his hand when he ran to her.

His sword remained implanted in the creature’s eye and he discarded his whip along the way to catch her.

Her body dipped towards the ground just as he wrapped his arms around her. She was gaunt and pale, but after a few seconds of furrowed brows and labored breathing, she opened her eyes.

Trevor breathed her name and held her a little closer.

She looked at him with relief—and then confusion—and then she turned green and tried to spin away from him.

Just, not fast enough to avoid throwing up on his boot.

She wound up on her knees a few feet away and coughed up the last bit of her stomach contents before wiping her mouth on the back of her sleeve. He could tell she was dazed, but he immediately recognized the fire in her. 

“Are you all right?” he asked, with more concern than he should have had for a stranger.

She looked at him, clearly thinking the same, and managed a hoarse, “Did my grandfather send you?”

“Something like that.” Trevor’s heart was pounding in his chest and he had to remind himself to calm down. He wanted nothing more than to run to her, scoop her up, hold her, _celebrate_. She was here, alive.

The last image he’d have of her wasn’t going to be her charred corpse.

It was going to be her vomiting on him, but he’d take it.

Her eyes flashed suddenly, hopeful. “The Sleeping Savior,” she whispered. Her attention was fully on him, awed and admiring.

He raised a hand. “No. He’s still down here. I’m Trevor, Trevor Belmont.”

Recognition flashed on her face, but it wasn’t enough. “A Belmont? Down here?”

He knew her, but she didn’t know him. 

But she was alive, so Alucard must be, too. Everyone must be.

“Yeah,” he replied. “And you and I have the same goal.”

“To find the Sleeping Savior?” she asked, and then with more enthusiasm, “He’s still down here, do you mean? You know that for certain? Where?”

Too many questions at once, but Trevor expected that of her. Sypha wasn’t the sort to wait patiently if she wanted something.

“He’s down here.”

“You’ve seen him?” she demanded. “You’ve spoken to him?”

“No.” He held out a hand to help her up and she readily accepted. “But we’ll have him before the end of the night.”

Questions burned in her eyes; he could _see_ the ‘How’ on her lips, but he dropped her hand and gestured for her to walk with him.

“We have to get back to the Speakers, soon. This town is going to Hell, tonight. Well. Going _more_ to Hell. You and I have a lot of work to do.” He picked up his whip as they passed it and fastened it to his belt. Sypha walked a few steps behind him, though she kept her distance when they approached the Cyclops’ corpse.

She looked at it not with fear, but disdain. At it, at herself. Trevor could see her chastising herself for her predicament and cleared his throat. “You couldn’t have known what you were facing. You’ll be more prepared now.”

“I’m prepared now,” Sypha challenged. She was a prideful creature, but Trevor only hid a smile as he yanked his sword free and cleaned it on his cloak.

It was good to hear her talk. He didn’t want her to stop.

Anything to drown out the sound of her screams.

“Good. Because you have _no_ idea what you’re in for.”

As he sheathed his sword, his hand found the pouch that held the little pocketwatch.

The plan now was just to get back to the Speakers and get her fed. She needed to be at full strength. With her return, the Speakers would be indebted to him. He fully intended to hold this over their head until he got the answers he needed. 

He wanted Sypha back for his own reasons, but he wasn’t against manipulating the Elder into giving him _honest_ answers. Not the watered down ‘Speaker’ version. He wanted the truth, and all of it. He wanted to know what he’d picked up on the outskirts of Gresit, and he wanted to know if second chances really came that easy.

And then, he wanted to get back on the right track and defeat Dracula.

He couldn’t do it himself, but he was making better time than he’d expected.

And he had Sypha already, so one down.

One to go.

This time, Alucard had better appreciate the shit he had to go through to get to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone has sent me requests, please know that I fully intend to get to everything I’ve been sent and am working down my list! I hope to update this one as well as work on those! My requests are still open, but I have a few so it might take me a little while to get to the newer ones, but I will be posting a completed request next, in the very near future!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


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